Welcome Home
by ylvglo
Summary: Overnight Jack's life changes forever


This story was originally posted on AO3 back in August, but I thought I'd post it here too.

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_**Welcome Home**_

He wakes to the hookline of the local news channel. For a moment he frowns uncertainly, because this thing he's lying on, it is not his bed, and then the night before came back to him. They'd been visiting Jamie's house, and when they came home Emma had gone straight to bed while Jack had decided to catch the news before he too retired. He must have fallen asleep on the couch.

He sits up slowly, a yawn leaving him as he raises his arms above his head and stretches. He faintly notes that for once he doesn't feel stiff after spending the night on the couch. He'll just count his blessings for that he supposes.

He opens his eyes and blearily stares at the TV screen_. What's our house doing on the news?_ A distant part of his mind wonders.

_Wait…_

"−daughter of the house found drowned by the pond in the backyard−"

Jack can feel himself go very still and he swallows, the action causing a body tremor to run through him. _No. He heard wrong, they can't… they can't be saying that… that Emma is_ dead_. It's just not possible. There must be some kind of mistake. Emma… she can't… she_ can't _be dead_.

_Oh god_. "_No._" He hugs himself tightly, shaking. His mouth is running dry and he can feel a lump forming in his throat. He shakes his head. This is not happening, it _can't_ be happening, it has to be someone's cruel idea of a joke.

_I… I should go check on her, see if she's ok…_

"−the parents had been out for the night−"

His eyes snap back to the screen, but he only sees the anchor woman talking and a small image of their pond in the corner of the screen.

His parents. Oh god, what were they thinking? Did they blame him? He lifts his feet from the floor and wraps his arms around his knees. Something rustles, but he pays it no mind. He'd promised them to look after Emma, and now… now she was… was…

_No, it's a Joke,_ remember _Jack. A _joke_!_ He laughs, but it sounds hysterical and broken even in his own ears.

He almost chokes when more of what the anchor woman is saying registers in his mind.

"−no trace of the family's son−"

No trace? But he's right here, in the living ro… His heart stops and his guts turn to ice. That's not their television… It's too big, too fancy.

But he has no chance to take the discovery in before the newscaster catches his attention once more.

"−police consider the son their main suspect−"

Main suspect…

"No, no, no, nonono…" They can't be saying someone _murdered_ Emma? They can't! He doesn't even want to believe she's _dead_, let alone murdered.

And… _oh god_, they think _he_ did it.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" a silky voice purrs into his left ear.

For the second time this morning – afternoon? – Jack goes completely still. The air leaves his lungs and he can't _breathe_. His lower jaw starts shaking and it feels like he's asphyxiating.

A hand finds itself on his back and begins what he's sure is supposed to be soothing circles. All it does is make him go from not being able to breathe at all to breathing too fast. His chest aches. He can't get enough air in his lungs.

The voice spurs soothing nonsense and how much Jack doesn't want it to help, it does. The pain his chest recedes, but he can't find it in him to feel any joy at it. Because now he no longer has any reasons _not_ to turn around. God he doesn't want to turn around.

He still does.

The eyes that meet his are impossibly golden, or so he thinks at first because he blinks and when his eyes open anew the ones staring down at him are grey, almost silver. There is something so intense in that gaze. He can feel goose bumps crawl down his nape.

They eyes sit above a prominent nose in a face that can only be described as ashen. He seem almost sickly to Jack, but he's not going to say that aloud, he's not stupid. The man's sneer does nothing to change the impression, it's an ugly thing and Jack can imagine those lips pulling back to show jagged teeth.

The man's previous words churn through his mind as they stare at each other, and the teen is not liking the conclusions he's making.

"What did you do?" he whispers, words trembling slightly as he hugs his knees closer.

"More to the point Jack. What did_ you_ do?" The man breathes back – _and oh god he _knows _Jack's _name – and Jack stops breathing, eyes going wide. What does he mean, what did Jack do? Jack hasn't done _anything_. Right? _Right?_

"Breath Jack. It's all right, I'm here," the man soothes and Jack wants to scream, because it's not alright and the ash faced man is only making it all worse. Why can't he leave him alone?

But Jack doesn't scream, instead he draws a deep breath and lets himself breath again. The man smiles knowingly, lips pulling back just enough to see … and god they _are_ jagged.

"Who… who are… you?" he stutters out, trying feebly to shrink away from the man, but he only leans closer, breath sliding over Jack's face.

"Only your biggest fan, Jack," he says and his smile turns into a small grin.

"Fan?" Jack doesn't understand.

"Yes, but to you I am Pitch, Pitch Black." And how that grin grows, like Pitch is a very pleased cat. If a cat could ever look so sinister. The teen can do nothing but shrink deeper into his seat, too frightened to move. "But I'm being rude," Pitch continues after a moment, "Let me show you your room, Jack."

The man holds out an arm to gesture to the room around them, and it is only now, with a fearful glance around, that Jack take note of his surroundings beyond the couch he's sitting on and the TV before him.

The couch is the exact same as the one in the Overland living room, only newer, less used. The TV looks nothing like theirs, it is a fancy, slim new model; theirs is an old boxy thing they'd inherited from one of his mother's more eccentric friends.

To the right is a door opening leading to a smaller room where Jack spots a sink and what he guess is part of a toilet. There is no mirror. Further to the right, along another wall is a bookshelf filled with pocket books. "I got you all your favorites," Pitch says when he notices Jack's gaze on the bookshelf. He quickly turns his head away, how does Pitch even know what his favorite books are?

The wall also holds a single shelf with paper cups and plates, and what Jack guesses is plastic cutlery. (Heaven forbid Jack gets his hand on a real knife.) Beneath the shelf is a small refrigerator if he isn't completely wrong.

A bed is placed along the opposite wall. Above it hangs posters from Jack's favorite games and movies.

He can feel bile raise in his throat, this is not happening, it's a dream. _Please let it be a dream._

There is only one door, on the opposite wall from the bathroom, the other side of the room from where he's sitting. He can't reach it. One end of a chain is melded into the floor of the room, close to where Jack is sitting. The other end of the chain is fastened to a shackle around his right leg.

It is only as he stare at the shackle that he realizes he is not wearing the jeans from last night. And now that he's aware, it is also obvious that his hoodie is missing. Instead he's wearing some kind of nightgown. Sheer and black.

He licks the inside of his mouth in attempt to return the moisture to it before turning back towards Pitch. Again the man's eyes appear golden for a moment, Jack dismiss it as the shine from the all but forgotten TV.

"Welcome home, Jack," Pitch purrs lovingly.

Jack whimpers.

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This story was originally intended as a stand alone, but I have some ideas for this universe.

I'd love to hear what you think :3


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